


silience

by chateauofmyheart



Series: queen + rare words [8]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: BECAUSE THEY ARE, Couch Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Male Friendship, Singing, Sleepovers, freddie and brian are platonic soulmates, mentions/references to fleetwood mac, set sometime in the 70s, this is an appreciation fic for brian's singing voice, this is just pretty soft and way longer than intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chateauofmyheart/pseuds/chateauofmyheart
Summary: silience - the kind of unnoticed excellence that carries on around you every day, unremarkably"When Brian tips his head back a little and almost belts the line 'when you said you didn’t love me anymore', his voice cracks like an old radio and John’s heart lurches."





	silience

**Author's Note:**

> okay so i know silience isn't _technically_ a word but i found it on the dictionary of obscure sorrows and knew immediately that i had to write something with it
> 
> and the timeline here is fucked because their dynamics are early-ish 70s but there's music from 1979 featured so suspension of disbelief is kinda required sorry

Playing live, it’s easy to lose Brian’s voice amongst the others. It fits in the spaces between Roger growling low notes and piercing falsetto, flows under Freddie’s powerful siren song, and never really takes a space of its own apart from when he speaks to the crowd.

It’s a bit like John in that respect.

And see, here’s the thing; John’s never really _noticed_ Brian’s voice before. Sure, he’s heard it, talking (always talking), and recording in the studio, and the whispered tailing notes at a gig, but he’s never truly listened.

 

Then something changes, one hot afternoon at their shared flat. They’re still living together, despite having college a couple years behind them, though they’ve upgraded from the tiny, mold-touched flat they’d previously resided in.

It’s three of them, Roger having stayed the night with whoever, sitting within each others gravity; Brian leaning against the kitchen counter, paper in hand, Freddie splayed across the couch, hairy limbs draping over the edges, and John, sat at the table with toast.

“Brian, dear?” Freddie calls from his spot lazing on the couch. Brian hums, not looking up from his paper. Freddie twists his head to look back at him. John thinks it looks rather uncomfortable, but then again, so does many of Freddie’s outfits.

“Sing something for me.”

Brian hums again, and for a moment John thinks he won’t indulge Freddie, because Brian doesn’t seem the type. But Brian has a way of catching him off guard. John isn’t quite decided if he likes that yet or not.

_“There’s no living in my life anymore. The seas have gone dry and the rain’s stopped falling…”_

‘Oh’, is all John thinks. _Oh._

 

And it’s strange, because he’s heard Brian recording songs before, heard him mumble half-formed lyrics to himself and sing along to the radio, and yet-. And yet, all he can do is sit there, toast hovering between the plate and his mouth as Brian’s soft voice flows over him, somehow different in their little flat, backed by the water in the upstairs pipes and the rustle of paper. 

“Brian?” Freddie asks in the space between two lines. Brian pauses and looks over at him.

“Hm?”

“Why are you singing Nevermore?”

Brian shrugs, turning back to his paper as if he’s still reading it. “Just what came to mind.”

“Are you feeling sad?” Freddie asks, not quite cautious but not quite confident. John thinks there’s history there, behind the simple, heavy question.

“Not particularly.” Brian tips his head. His curls bounce, once, and resettle into the halo around his face. It’s been getting longer lately, brushing his collar bones in a way it never did before. (It’s a good look.)

“Alright.” Freddie stays watching Brian just long enough for silence to settle like powder snow over them.

“Want me to keep going?”

“Obviously.” 

Brian exhales, short and harsh, as he ducks his head, the way he always does when he smiles. It’s an interesting, unique gesture, like the smile hits him by surprise and knocks the wind out of him.

John watches this exchange in fascination. They seem to have forgotten he’s in the room entirely, an observation of which the sting is dulled by the heavy shock blanket of familiarity. Brian starts singing again, low and soft and _something_.

When Brian tips his head back a little and almost belts the line “when you said you didn’t love me anymore”, his voice cracks like an old radio and John’s heart lurches.

 

(And see here’s the thing; Brian’s voice is beautiful. Not in the way that stands out, knocks you off your feet and steals your breath like Freddie or Roger, but the way you catch a sunset, something otherwise quite normal, at just the right moment, and something inside settles in your chest. It’s the beauty of the world people don’t usually stop to appreciate. It’s always been there. 

John just had to stop and notice it.)

 

* * *

 

John notices Brian’s voice more after that. Of course he does; Brian’s voice is everywhere, singing and talking and humming and laughing.

(Though, now that John’s paying attention, Brian doesn’t laugh as much as he thought he did. With the group, sure, but it’s easy to catch Freddie or Roger giggling to themselves over something or the other. Brian’s laugh is often caught up in the whirlwind of other noise, and John realizes that might just be Brian’s voice in general.

Freddie’s innocuous question is starting to make sense now.)

 

There’s an acoustic guitar strumming somewhere in the flat, and judging from the way the sounds stops and starts again, it’s Freddie playing- or attempting to play, more accurately. He’d started learning once he realized he was the only one who couldn’t play guitar. Good for him, really.

John stares into the early morning darkness of his bedroom and wonders why the _hell_ Freddie’s playing guitar before six o’clock. 

It wouldn’t be so bad were it not for the stuttering of it. John turns and shoves his pillow over his head. His hair feels scratchy against his head as it folds. His shirt rides up over his shoulder. John wants to throw the pillow across the room.

The aborted chords continue.

John’s just wondering whose patience with the guitar is going to run out first, his or Freddie’s- probably Freddie, he’s always been impatient- when the strumming cuts out and John hears a low murmur.

His half-awake brain doesn’t identify it at first, but there’s only one person in their flat who has the decency to keep their voice soft this early in the morning.

Freddie responds to whatever was said, a bit louder but also unintelligible. The gentle murmuring, like a whisper but more solid, returns. John’s eyes flutter shut, sleepy again. 

They continue talking in the still morning air. Like an ocean, the push and pull of exchanging pitches and intonations lull John back into that cozy drowse of barely-consciousness. He hovers over the precipice of going back to sleep.

There’s the faintest warmth of sunlight beginning on his curtains. He thinks of staying awake, knowing dawn was maybe an hour away, but he’s not in college anymore, and late mornings are a rarity for him anyway, with his mind waking him early most days. He snuggles down into his covers, tucking his knees a bit closer. The voices pause and he finds himself waiting in anticipation.

But then they start up again, like that guitar but infinitely better, and along the quiet conversation from two rooms away, John falls back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Roger’s arm is just a little too tight over his shoulders, but John is pleasantly drunk and laughing along with something he said, so it doesn’t matter. Strands of blonde hair tickle his cheek as he bends forward, gasping for air in between giggles. Grainy, beer-stained wood is awfully close to his face all of a sudden.

He lifts his head, yanking his hair out of a sticky puddle of what he hopes is Roger’s whiskey, which he can vaguely recollect watching Roger spill. His stomach churns a little and he pulls a face.

Across the table, Freddie is draped across Brian’s lap, animatedly retelling some story John’s already heard. His hands fly as he gestures aggressively, indicating along to the conversation he’s recapping. Brian rears his head back sharply and just barely avoids getting clocked by those careless knuckles.

John bursts into giggles again. Brian gives Freddie a flat smile, fond and irritated.

Roger’s arm falls down behind him as he throws back a drink. It wedges uncomfortably between John’s arse and the wood bench. His hand clenches reflexively and John can feel fingers move against the fabric of his pants.

“Can you believe he said that? To _me?_ ”

Brian hums, the way he always does when he indulges Freddie, and the pitch of it sends John back to that sunny afternoon. Strains of Nevermore, in Brian’s somber voice, float through his mind. He shivers.

“Fred, I’m getting up.” Freddie closes his eyes and shoves his face deeper into Brian’s stomach. Brian makes a wheezing noise and tries again, hands resting over Freddie’s shoulders. “Freddie, I’ve got to take a piss.”

John doesn’t think Freddie’s going to move. Neither does Brian. He digs his long fingers under Freddie’s back and gives a firm push upwards. Freddie groans and nearly tumbles off the bench. Roger cracks up. 

Brian eases Freddie back, so gentle and slow and John for a second imagines himself in Freddie’s place, those bony hands along his back as Brian scoots past and then lowers him back down.

Those curls, dangling over him, framing Brian’s sharp face. 

From the bench, no longer visible, Freddie bitches about his pillow leaving him. John hears Roger make a snarky comment, but his focus is on the inverted triangle of Brian’s back. Broad shoulders weave between milling drunkards and he disappears.

John frowns into his drink, which he had near forgotten. He doesn’t want Brian to go, and that thought bothers him a little. Not enough to dwell on it, though, and Roger’s nudging hand has him looking up and joining the banter before long.

 

“-and she was all over me! Great tits, you know, but I was trying to leave.”

John internally rolls his eyes at Roger’s lament. So awful, really, being attractive. What a struggle.

(He knows it isn’t all good for Roger, though. He sees it in the little comments people made about him, like he’s only a pretty face. Roger has terrible ideas and worse impulse control, but he isn’t _stupid_. 

The way Roger brushes it off, John could almost have been fooled into thinking it didn’t matter. It does.

But he digresses.)

 

Freddie collapses against Brian as he sits back down. Something in John’s stomach settles. All four of them are together, the way it should be. Brian’s smile is a lovely thing, like a bloom in early spring. It’s not spring though, it’s late summer, and John wonders idly where that dumb thought came from.

Brian meets John’s eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly. His gaze flits to Roger, then down to Roger’s empty, upturned glass, and then back to John. It takes John a bit to realize it’s a question. He tries to think back to Roger spilling his drink, one or two- or maybe three?- drinks ago, and wonders how many he’d already had. 

He comes up with nothing but a muddled mess of various bars and parties and moments of watching Roger drink. His head swims. There’s a persistent ache behind his eyes.

He longs for his bed. Soft sheets and fluffy pillows- not hotel soft or fluffy, god those were nice- but familiar. If he leans back at the right angle, he can almost pretend he’s on their couch at home. His eyes ache less when they’re closed.

John drinks the last of his drink. Meets Brian’s eyes. Remembers there’s a question he’s supposed to be answering. He can’t remember the question, or whether he had an answer. He shrugs.

Brian sighs, sounding like John’s mother, overworked as she always was. Especially after his da- John lifts his glass and tries to take another sip to break that line of thought. Nothing comes out. He frowns at the empty glass in disappointment. 

Roger’s head hits the table with a muffled thunk. He doesn’t lift it. John would laugh, but it takes too much energy so he bares his teeth in what he thinks is a grin.

His eyes ache. His bed is a siren call.

Brian sighs again, as Freddie giggles hysterically at nothing.

 

Roger’s elbow is digging into his ribs. John opens his eyes to shove him away- funny, he hadn’t realized they were closed- and finds he’s on the couch. At home.

At home?

Roger is slumped beside him, sunglasses tilted haphazardly over closed eyes. His neck is at uncomfortable angle. John’s muscles twinge in anticipated sympathy.

On the other side of Roger is Freddie, curling into his chest. His hair is mussed like he’s just performed a gig. His eyelashes are long and dark over his cheeks, smudged with leftover eyeliner.

John himself is squashed into the pillows, seemingly having thrown himself down and attempted to melt into the couch. It’s comfortable, or would be save for Roger’s bony elbow, and John feels the sleepiness crashing back.

Brian steps into the room, nearly hidden behind an armful of quilts and blankets. He pauses to survey the tangle of bodies. His smile is a wide one, lips pulled back far enough to reveal his sharp canines. (That’s John’s favorite smile of his.)

He comes over and dumps the blankets on the floor at their feet. John isn’t quite sure whether Brian is aware he’s awake or not. He keeps still.

Brian tugs lightly at Roger’s shoulder, who slumps forward with a little moan and remains limp as Brian resettles him back into the cushions in a more comfortable position, head propped back over the top of the couch. John’s side is now elbow-free. Freddie, having once more lost his human pillow, falls forward into the space next to Roger’s thighs.

“Bri?” Maybe Freddie is more awake than John thought. He keeps his eyes closed, words trapped between couch cushions. Brian’s eyeroll is overwhelmingly fond.

“Sing us a lullaby.”

When Brian doesn’t immediately reply, Freddie repeats it, louder, into the muffling fabric. Brian picks up a blanket- red and a little worn, covered intricately with swirling geometric gold designs, from Freddie’s family- and carefully drapes it over Freddie’s bare arms- John wonders briefly whether it was Freddie or Brian that removed his jacket- and begins to hum a vaguely familiar tune. 

He picks the glasses off Roger’s face, who snorts slightly but otherwise doesn’t react, and begins to sing quietly.

_“Now, here you go again, you say you want your freedom. Well, who am I to keep you down?”_

John’s heart speeds up and slows down. He can feel himself trembling. Somewhere in the back his mind, he places Brian’s warm voice with a higher one he’d heard on the radio. Maybe it’s the late hour, or the couple of drinks he’d watched Brian sip, but there’s a rasp in to his voice that isn’t usually there, and it catches, ragged, in the air, and fits perfectly in the space between John’s ears.

_”But listen carefully to the sound”_ Brian picks up a heavier quilt, tacky and garish blue, _“of your loneliness, like a heartbeat, drives you mad”_ and lays it on Roger’s lap. He tucks it meticulously around him, folding it behind his shoulders and over the necklace around his throat. He croons at Roger’s sleeping face, lips curving fractionally.

_”Thunder only happens when it’s rainin’. Players only love you when they’re playin’.”_

Freddie’s eyes are open now, gazing at Brian with undisguised affection. He doesn’t try to join in or wiggle around for Brian’s attention. Just watches, and listens.

Brian turns to John, downy green blanket in hand. He catches John’s open eyes as his mouth shapes the words. John stares back at him. Feels like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Holds his breath.

_“When the rain washes you clean you’ll know.”_ The blanket is a grounding weight over his chest. It’s soft too. Brian’s hands, large and warm and bony, flutter over him, rearranging. The smell of Brian’s clean soap mixing with his natural scent, trailed by hints of tangy cocktail from the bar, washes over him. John can only close his eyes and _listen_.

Brian sings the next verse loud in the dead night hours, voice smoothing out as he goes on. He sounds like an angel, all light and gentle comfort. No- Freddie sounds like an angel, unearthly and divine. Brian’s got something more human, more breakable, more _melancholy_ in him. He’s something a bit closer to home.

He picks up the last blanket, an old, ratty pink thing that’s been in their linen closet since John remembers moving in. John can feel the cushions dip as Brian settles next to him, bringing the old blanket up to pool over his hips and curling his legs under him.

_“Say, women, they will come and they will go”_ he drawls, dragging out the “go”. John wants to listen to him sing this song forever. He desperately fights the sleep tugging him under. 

_“When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know.”_

Brian repeats “you’ll know” and John knows it’s the end of the song. He drifts away with the last notes of Brian’s more-earthly-than-heaven voice ringing in the quiet air.

 

* * *

 

Plates clatter and clink against the metal sink lining and each other. Water rushes down over them. John watches long, thin arms disappear into the soapy water. 

Brian’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that, combined with his mismatched rainbow and cat-patterned socks, makes him look like a sweet boyfriend. Or a housewife, domestic and helpful and loving. The image has John’s face heating.

(Oh, but Brian could never be a housewife- or househusband, whatever-, John knows. He’s far too brilliant and passionate to be trapped at home. There’s so much he’s going to do.

Still, John tucks that fantasy into the back of his mind.)

Trailing his eyes up those long, dark legs, John wants nothing more than to go up to him and slip his arms around that skinny torso, rest his head on Brian’s back and hold him, basking in the comfort of being together. 

(God, he doesn’t even know why. Brian is as irritating as he is likeable, and that’s on a good day. On bad days John can’t stand to be near him. And yet he’s gone and fallen in love all the same.)

 

Freddie and Roger had whisked away like autumn leaves only a few minutes ago, off to dig through musty boutiques and (hopefully) pick up the groceries on the way back. Freddie had mentioned talking to Zandra Rhodes again over eggs with Brian, whose eyes immediately lit up. The two had discussed stage wear and themes for their next shows while John sneakily admired the way excitement crinkled away the quiet exhaustion lining Brian’s face.

It’s one of those days. 

Roger had caught him outside the bathroom this morning, giving Brian’s closed bedroom door a meaningful look and asking whether John had plans today, since he and Freddie were going out. John hadn’t, of course, and now he’s with alone with Brian in their flat all day. 

He watches Brian start to flush away the bubbles and realizes this is a moment Freddie would ask him to sing. John bites his lip.

“Hey, Brian?”

Bad idea. _Bad_ idea. But it’s too late now, Brian’s turning around with a half-curious look and soapy hands. His stomach drops through the floor.

“Do you want to sing something?” John forces out before the gap in his words becomes unbearable. Brian blinks.

“Is that a question or a request?” His face his blank, but there’s a crinkle to his eyes like he’s fighting a smile. John might be imagining the twitch of his lips, but all at once he remembers who he’s talking to. For all his untouchable grace, Brian is still _Brian._

His voice is strong as he replies with “a request.”

Brian ducks his head, and though John can’t see it, he knows he’s smiling. Grinning down into the draining sink with those canines poking out.

After a moment, Brian’s curls shift back upwards. He picks up a plate and places it on the counter. “Anything in particular?” 

John hums in thought as Brian stacks the breakfast plates. A million ideas run through his head, half of which are too embarrassing to ask for. The earlier thought of how bad an idea this is comes back.

“Whatever you want.” He offers weakly, hoping Brian doesn’t look at him. He feels like an idiot. This was Brian and Freddie’s thing. But he’d opened his mouth and now the air felt different. Off, like John had shoved a wedge under the earth and tilted it off its axis.

Brian sets down the last plate. The set of his shoulders shifts, and he steps back, head still turned away.

_”Music is playing in the darkness, and a lantern goes swinging by.”_ He pauses and casts John a look through the curls over his shoulder. _”Shadows flickering, my heart’s jittering,”_ Brian turns fully. His chin dips so he’s gazing from under heavy eyelids. _”just you and I.”_

John feels like he’s been punched in the chest. That’s _his_ song. The one he knows will never be performed live, will never be belted out by Freddie in front of hundreds of people, will never be remembered. 

Here it is, sung carefully by Brian to an audience of one. And John couldn’t ask for anything better.

 

Brian sings every word like it’s made of spun glass. Like it’s still liquid-hot and he’s shaping it into a precious gift. What was a rather upbeat song is melted down to quiet ballad. He sings, _”time don’t mean a thing when you’re by my side. Please stay awhile”_ and it sounds hopeful. 

(There’s a sultriness to the way he sings it that’s reminiscent of Freddie. But it’s not Freddie at all, it’s gentle and cracking at the edges. It’s not a show, it’s a gesture. John’s being _serenaded._

And there’s something about Brian that gives everything he sings, no matter what or how, a hint of melancholy. There’s a soft, suffocating sadness in him that John knows he can’t do anything about.

Brian could take every song John writes and turn it sad and John would love it all the same. John would love him all the same.)

 

John doesn’t realize he’s stood up and moved around the counter until Brian trails off, watching him. He looks bewitched and impossibly young. The morning light catches his wide eyes and the green part of his hazel iris glows.

“Keep going.” John’s voice sounds wrecked, and he wants to clear his throat but knows it would upset the delicately balanced atmosphere between them. Brian’s gaze flicks down to John’s lips and John files that particular movement away for later.

Brian’s voice drops. _”You know I could never foresee the future years.”_ John shivers a little, despite himself. Brian’s gaze is a sharp focus point in the haze of his mind. _”You know I could never see where life was leading me.”_

Brian’s curls are almost brushing his face. Their lips are maybe two inches apart and John wants to, _aches to_ , kiss him. To press himself into that bony frame and finally have him. But Brian’s voice is a sweet honey and as much as he wants to taste it he wants to hear him too. 

_”But will we be together forever?”_ John’s lips have dropped open subconsciously. Warm words are falling into his mouth, growing quieter as they get closer. _”What will be, my love? Can’t you see that I just don’t know?”_

Brian hasn’t looked up to his eyes. His eyelashes flutter, quiver, and John can count them from here. He can see Brian’s pores from here. _They’re so close._ John can’t help himself.

(Brian’s honey lips are so sweet under his own. Bony shoulders shift and shudder. The air is quiet, or so John believes. He can’t hear anything over the blood rushing ocean loud in his ears. There’s a pocket of nausea in his gut, whirling around, but it seems so small. Brian’s hands are so large on his hips.)

 

Brian looks lost when John pulls back. He’s glowing, John thinks, as the late morning sun shines along his round eyes and spit-slick lips. His curls are a halo, even though he’s too unhappy to be an angel, too caught up in earthly sadness. He doesn’t seem sad now, though.

Brian kisses him again. He seems desperate with it. John can only pull him closer. Sharp hips dig into his stomach and he presses his fingertips into the muscle between Brian’s shoulders and neck, slots his thumbs over his collarbone. Brian trembles, just slightly. John feels the earth is unbalanced under his feet. Maybe he’s trembling too.

Brian ducks his head and coughs, breathing heavily. He’s stepped back a little, out of politeness, but his hands are a vice on John’s hips. John’s not quite sure he’s realized.

Their eyes meet, and John opens his mouth to say- something, god, what is there to say?- but Brian beats him to it.

_“Can’t you see”_ and his breathing is still too fast, the words are gasped out but he sounds lovely all the same, _“that we’ve gotta be together- be together, just you and I.”_

A warm hand cups John’s face. _“Just you and I.”_

He looks like he wants to smile but is too afraid to do it. John thinks maybe being afraid of each other is stupid. 

He kisses that honey-sweet mouth, swallows up that elusive, gentle voice, and feels sharp teeth against his as those shiny lips curve up. John mirrors his grin until they’re no longer kissing, just pressing their happy mouths together. 

 

(‘This is a sunset moment’, John thinks, and when Brian speaks again his voice is impossibly soft. It’s absolutely breathtaking, and John _notices._ )

**Author's Note:**

> this ship is underrated and i love them sm. thats all


End file.
